


Carry Us Home

by Exorbit



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Season/Series 04, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exorbit/pseuds/Exorbit
Summary: Languidly he curls on the ground, cheekbone pressed to a cluster of red-yellow spots. Many of them are more of reflections than they are stars, almost as if they are puddles. But he sees it’s not his cheek in the water.Shiro shuffles, wondering if Black appears human in the plane’s mirror. But the figure is decidedly familiar, in the experience of someone heknows,rather than someone he’s connected to by mind and spirit.It doesn’t take a genius to figure out. He’s known him since – before he knew himself, he figures.





	1. plane of glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rumpledvelvet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpledvelvet/gifts).



> My pinch hit for Sol; I hope you enjoy this as it goes and it brings a smile or two to your face. This will be either two or three chapters, with the first likely being the shortest.

Solace is a rarity. War is a practically a constant – there always are battles that have to be fought, there are always people in need of saving. Bloodshed will bring bloodshed, with copious amounts spilled in a mad hunt for peace. Or, at least, a change to society.

Shiro doesn’t have _relaxation_. Rest is simply not in his vocabulary, albeit it’s not by choice. If he dares to lie down without the intention of sleep, something ugly and internal gnaws at him; thoughts, visceral and angry, swarm in the quiet. _I need to be doing better, there’s_ _some type of_ _work to be done._

He doesn’t bring it on himself. He tries, he tries, he tries not to do this. He tires his body to a point well beyond exhaustion, far over the line of a healthy workout, but his mind never falters. He finds that while his body ceases to function, his brain continues on as though it is a separate entity.

A saving grace: his episodes are few and far between. And in those moments, he knows that Black takes notice.

When Shiro can feel himself slipping, as though a grain of sand through a crack, Black pulls him away. Oh, he does fall, but he falls in another way entirely. It's not sleeping, striking paralysis, nor has time itself stopped. Rather, the sensation as he slips through is like small needles pressing onto his skin, touch akin to a brush of wheat.

The low purr of a lion is what guides him under, because otherwise – from experience, “ _I’ve got you now, paladin_ ,” rings in and throughout his ears. It happened the second time he fell onto the alien plane. Shiro hit the stardust ground gasping, arm lit out of a mixture of primal fear and muscle memory in preparation for a fight.

After that, Black tends to whisper incomprehensible words during his descent. Neither of them care to remember that fight. 

Here, he finds, is beautiful. Beautiful in ways that language fails him. Reality is cut and carved out of starlight, to the extent where the land he walks on is made out of it. On some occasion or another, he realizes that the further he walks, the more that the buzzing that edges the sides of his skull drops. After he’s found a particularly colorful area, done in all sorts of hues not normally visible to the human eye, it stops entirely.

Shiro breathes in nothing. Yet his lungs clear in an exhale.

Galaxies are merely stars from this pinpoint. While he feels massive in comparison to the great space of _empty_ , on the true scale he is but a drop of rain on a fingertip of the universe.

It’s humbling, in the truest sense of the word. But there’s an involuntary swell of pride of being deemed worthy of this gift, over and over, from an otherworldly beast. Perhaps made from another universe altogether, had the comet traveled through more than just space-time fabric, but nonetheless. The Black Lion chose _him_.

As though listening in to his thoughts, which she probably is, Black murmurs something. It’s kind of a chirp, keenly approving in tone; meaning something along the lines of _and I_ _would choose you again_.

She’s crystal clear in this area. Utmost peace, as there’s no disturbance of the haunts of his mind, no crushing pressure of his surroundings setting in. He has precious few moments in the astral, else he’d grow addicted to the sound of silence and the Black Lion’s comforting presence.

But, for now. Languidly he curls on the ground, cheekbone pressed to a cluster of red-yellow spots. Many of them are more related to reflections than they are stars, almost as if they are puddles. Faraway planets, systems, and galaxies twinkle overhead; Shiro matches his erratic breathing to the beat of their blinks.

Eventually, his body calms down from its nervous high. Soon his visit will have to end, he has to go, return to his bunk and whatever else awaits him. Cat-like, he stretches out of his curl before removing his head.

But, when he turns his gaze downward, he sees it’s not his cheek in the water.

Shiro shuffles to sit upright, kind of wondering if Black appears human in any of the plane’s mirrors. But the figure is decidedly familiar, in the experience of someone he _knows_ , rather than someone he’s connected to by mind and spirit.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out. He’s known him since – before he knew himself, he figures.

“Keith?” he asks, disbelieving, before the world turns flip side. Shiro startles on the ground of his room, eyes rolling over the shock of white lights.

Momentarily, he’s blinded. And in that space of a second, the constellation against his skin burns.

*****

“Has the Blade been anywhere near Olkarion lately?”

In the bad static of very little available data, Keith’s face doesn’t register through all that well. But there’s a twitch on his face, likely from his eyebrow.

“No,” he responds with noticeable hesitance. “We’ve mostly been investigating the Signa 1 quadrant. I think Kolivan wants us to check in on the Ulippa system soon?”

“And what about you?” _You do have a penchant for not following orders. Ones you find unworthy._ Malice is the farthest thing from his mind. It’s a thought Shiro comes back to often – and fondly.

“Pretty much just backtracking to make sure any leftover forces aren’t slipping through.” Keith takes a hand to his neck, lightly itching the small gap between armor and wild hair. He’s all but given up on trims for the past few months, but he tries to keep the long hair one-sided. “I guess seeing Senfama again was interesting.”

The two of them share a sigh. Naxzela, Senfama, the beginning of their takeover… “It’s been years, and I think Hunk will never recover from the initial wire malfunction from Allura’s broadcast.”

“Ha.” There is no humor in his voice. For some reason or another, any mention of that particular battle had a habit of making Keith… clam up. But before Shiro can question it, and it’s definitely not for the first time, Keith says, “Why were you asking? Do you need Kolivan to send a squad over?”

Shiro bites his lip, wondering where to go with this. “No, nothing like that. It’s just been awhile since I’ve seen you and all.”

“...do you want me to take a _vacation_?”

Biting down's intent is now to hide his laughter. “Not that, either. Don’t worry about it.”

“Alright,” clearly, he’s not satisfied by Shiro's avoidance whatsoever. By the look on his face, Shiro assumes that it’s more out of confusion rather than anger, but. “Well, it was nice seeing you, but I’ve got to get back before any of the trainees come in.”

“Good luck with that. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Sure.” From Shiro’s side, he waves as on the opposite end Keith bends forward to disconnect. As his sleeve falls down, the entirety of Keith’s left wrist is exposed on the screen.

Shiro doesn’t know why he’s startled or even hurt. He knows that the skin is unmarred. But when he sees that flash of white, his heart curls up tightly.

Fortunately, the transmission goes dead in an instant. Unfortunately, the panel returns to its electric blue home screen, there’s a burnt afterimage. Mocking, almost, because Shiro didn’t need a glare to remind him of the shape and color of Keith’s wrist.

Temporarily relieved of any Voltron paladin duties and amazingly abandoned by his own mind, Shiro rests ( _sort-of maybe_ ) comfortably in the corner. He’s running on a cruel version of autopilot; absentmindedly he removes his left glove to look.

On his skin – it’s fresh, as though he hasn’t aged a day. But that’s hardly surprising; soulmarks can never fade.

It _snaps_ back on, near-elastic material against bone. Gloves, a requirement for piloting Earth technology, incredibly handy whenever Shiro needs something to toy with. Aside from getting into bed or his armor, Shiro can’t recall really taking them off – they had never cut off his circulation and he just wore them more often than not.

Privately, Shiro admits it might have something to do with Keith's bare wrists.

"I don't get it," he muses aloud. For if it wasn't proximity, then why had Keith's face appeared in the water at all? During his remarkably short time as the head of Voltron, Keith hadn't exactly... bonded with the Black Lion. The string between _machine_ and _pilot_ may still be present for them, but why had Keith only tugged at it after all these years? Why had the Black Lion given him entry?

...had she? Or was it a trick of the plane, an act of smoke and mirrors when Shiro desperately needed peace of mind? 

His back buckles against the wall with a muffled _thump_. "And at this point, it looks like I won't." Because if the Black Lion figured he needed his forever unrequited love to appear in thin... air... _water_... then she hadn't gotten the idea in any sort of way.

A growl, soft but nevertheless present, resounds in his mind. Shiro winces in apology. 


	2. what stars are made of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Tongue feeling very dry around the words, he forces out, “It’s a long story.”
>> 
>> “We have nothing but time,” Keith gesticulates to a brilliant horizon light years away, “and space.”
>> 
>> “Okay, so you’re right on the second part, but time still exists. Now that I think about it, please tell me you’re not supposed to be on a mission right now.” 

What he knows: free-falling is easy; falling in love is easy.

What they told him: _Shiro,_ _have to keep your mouth closed._ That a person's feet need to be moved in a certain way, and the body should be positioned in this way, that way. Various lessons of how to descend, in that the air has a specific current and that love is a dive downward that one has to strive for. Romance novels make it seem like one needs to be prepared for the impact of their body against the solid ground, upon meeting against the chest of their partner.

But Shiro didn’t need to be taught. He didn’t see himself in mid-air, never realized that he was dangling some fifty feet above. There was no in-between moment, of not-in-love, _falling_ , in-love.

If Keith ever asked him, _when did you realize you_ _loved_ _me_ , Shiro couldn’t give him an instance.

_I think I’ve loved you forever. I think I’ve loved you always._

*****

Despite everything, despite reason, it happens like this.

Rather than a glimpse of a cheek, or a hint of any face at all, there is a hand, busying itself by clawing at the edge of the reflection. Initially, Shiro watches, from being stilled entirely by shock. The puddle doesn’t move at all, as though it’s a plane of ice instead of emptied space.

Rifts are injuries in space’s expanse. Skin covers blood, tissue, and blood, but there are no layers in the universe. There’s nothing beneath, only something keenly waiting from the other side.

Really, Shiro should have known better. The astral, a slice of space designated by the Black Lion, still has ground in a reality of some kind.

Fully trapped underneath, the hand stops its notions. Fingers no longer drag against the cool sheen of the in-between. His stomach violently shudders at the implications. Had the person died? If not, are they _going_ to?

With that in mind, Shiro does the only thing he can think of.

There's no resistance, no cold, no heat. He grabs them.

By the distinct shape of their hands, he recognizes the person he’s holding onto in a heartbeat; one of his fingers is bigger than two of Keith’s. Maybe because he’s now aware it’s Keith, he begins to haul him upwards with zero regards to how he’ll fit through.

Of course he _does_ , just by tearing apart the gap with the width of his body. The sound it makes is akin to scissors snipping at clothes... if the scissors were iron-hot to melt and the clothes were fitted with teeth. Suffice to say, it’s a guttural screech.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, despite Keith’s nails barely coming out of the rim, surely Keith can’t hear him, “I’ve got you, come on.”

Black water, thicker than ink but less condensed than blood, bubbles out. As the liquid splashes and sprays most of Shiro’s glove, he comes to a very belated realization: these aren’t puddles in the ground. These are wounds, slices tucked between the astral and another reality.

Unthinkingly he moves himself back, slightly dizzy and winded. Keith’s hand, covered to the skin with his armor, nearly jerks away from Shiro’s. Ooze falls out from their struggle, spewed black hissing steam.

Hardly fazed, Shiro’s legs impend the ground as he draws up the force to drag Keith out. He’s either coming out arms-first or not at all, obviously, and the latter is a hilarious improbability. 

Evidently, the years of nonstop stress on Keith haven’t taken their toll. A body composed of tough muscle comes tumbling out of the gap, the force too sudden for Shiro to do anything but stumble backward. Downwards, actually, directly onto the ground.

They’re quite the pair. What with Keith is drenched in the oil of space-time fabric while Shiro wastes no time in snagging ‘round that waist to lessen the brunt of Keith’s fall.

A pause on the ground, both breathing out the exertion of their push and pull exercise. A picture perfect moment, two men flushed against eachother's sharp ribcages, on the background of the universe. Something like ozone ignites inside of Shiro. 

Then Keith rams the base of his knee to Shiro’s groin – with startling precision, too, given how his eyes are basically sealed shut with otherworldly muck – and he gets very close to squirming free of Shiro’s iron-clad grip.

“Let go of me,” he gasps with no following exhale. His hands are more like claws, with the honed ends of the gloves, and they're relentlessly snatching at the vulnerable fat of Shiro's stomach. “Swear to god –”

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro snaps; something twists in his gut when Keith’s attempts to escape cease completely.

“Keith,” he repeats, taking care to lighten his tone and remove his arms from Keith’s person. “Are you okay?”

Just by the dim, bare light of the unnatural plane, Keith can hardly see. Care not for the ooze acting as facial cream. “Shiro?” Fruitlessly, Keith tries to rub his face clean with the back of his hand. Once he realizes that it doesn’t work, he – tries harder.

Shiro reigns in the exhale of a relieved sigh; at least, it’s definitely Keith.

Careful, as not to startle him any more than he already is, Shiro moves his own hand to Keith’s face. “Here, let me,” his fingers rest atop of the curve of Keith’s cheekbone until he nods his approval. Some of it has to be scratched off, to which Shiro murmurs an apology for.

“It’s fine,” he says, like he wasn't trying to injure Shiro a handful of seconds ago. Like he wouldn't have _killed_ Shiro, blind or not, with ample time. “Don’t worry about it.”

Throughout Shiro picking at Keith’s skin, the two of them shift and move to sit on the ground. Keith hovers close, for ease of access on Shiro'send.

When the bridge of his nose has been cleaned, Shiro sees that the skin is flushed red. Probably a trick of the astral, he assumes, what with his own body being colored inhumanly. He gives Keith a brief once-over. Hair, startlingly longer when he doesn’t have a hood to hide it in, beside his eyes are the beginnings of long, stretched lines. For his age and stature, he remains alarmingly lean, but half a decade’s worth of battles has given him some extra tone to his muscles.

Keith’s flesh isn’t nearly as pale as it is topside; skin, strewn together by countless shades and tints of purple. Starlight for a body, albeit his eyes remain the same. Sure, the plane brings the violet color out a bit more, but they’re just still just as beautiful –

He coughs. Keith’s eyes narrow; had he been looking at Shiro so intensely?

“Are you dead?”

“– Keith, no.” Keith shifts slightly, his striking eyes darting in several directions. His shoulders square, even though there’s no potential threat in sight.

Gaze still steady set on the distance, Keith asks, “Then where are we? It’s not like we can breathe in space.”

Simultaneously reassured and disturbed with the confirmation that the cheekbone and hand thing wasn’t purposeful on Keith’s part, Shiro is left speechless. Tongue feeling very dry around the words, he forces out, “It’s a long story.”

“We have nothing but time,” Keith gesticulates to a brilliant horizon light years away, “and space.”

“Okay, so you’re right on the second part, but time still exists. Now that I think about it, please tell me you’re not supposed to be on a mission right now.”

“Well, I was asleep,” Shiro succumbs to the urge of sighing, “until you pulled me in here.” Keith visibly brightens at the prospect. “Does that mean we can go back? Also,” he lightly taps Shiro’s knee, “you’re sitting cross-legged again, you’re going to give yourself a cramp.”

Keith drops his hand onto his thigh and mindlessly plays with the sleek underarmor. One-by-one, this man. Some things never change. 

Restraining himself to either jokingly throttle or passionately kiss Keith is difficult, but Shiro manages. Life is a trial. 

He stretches his legs out. “Let’s stay on subject,” he suggests in lieu of having to comment on the fact that their knees are brushing. “Usually, yeah.”

“ _Usually_ – Shiro, where are we?”

“You’re… we’re in space. The Black Lion’s space. Not in the Black Lion,” a quick amend as Keith’s mouth falls open, “but somewhere she created. Keith, did she call for you?”

Keith’s absentminded tuggings quell before the tugging comes back, furiously so. “No. I haven’t talked to the Black Lion in awhile.”

“Define _awhile_ , Keith."

“We haven’t talked since I left for the Blade, Shiro. Black has,” his free hand gestures to Shiro, “you.”

The flush on Keith’s face has darkened fairly, rolls of stormy purple curling over his jawline. Shiro drops it.

“Then I don’t know why.” _Are you stressed? Is she trying to get you out of your own head? Talk to me, talk to someone._ “You’re safe here, by any account.”

“I’m safe outside, too.”

Shiro is very thankful he was wearing his gloves before falling under. The brunt of the fabric scrubs at leftover sleep beneath his eyes. "Safer. No one else can reach us here." 

"Peaceful," he responds, acknowledging the idea of the plane. "Kind of like time-out." 

"Negative." Keith's eyebrow arches. "Negative outlook. Positive in the right idea." 

“So – Shiro, I’m, just to make sure, we’re stuck here until Black decides to kick us out.”

“Mmhm.” Mandatory bonding session, as administrated by the Black Lion. Suddenly, Shiro has the distinct feeling of being back in parent-teacher conferences in school. Which is better, he wonders, being sent to the corner or having adults talk about you. 

Keith furrows his eyes before rubbing at them. Apparently he’s already tired of the extraordinary scenery. “Guess we should talk. What’s on your mind?”

“Do Galra age faster?” Shiro winces. Keith balks. _Way to be careless, self._

“… what was that?”

“What I meant was, you look like you’re getting older already,” Keith’s – befuddled – glower only brings out the wrinkles on his face more. “I think you’re getting crow’s feet,” he says, giving up on any sense of tact.

“Oh, that,” in the tone of, _oh you just now noticed? Thanks,_ _I’ve been wearing this_ _look_ _for months now_. “It’s nothing, really. Darkness means I’ve been squinting a lot.” His eyebrows furrow in thought. “Though Matt says I need glasses.”

“Well he would know, wouldn’t h–”

Keith interrupts, “And you know what, salt, speak for yourself. Shouldn’t pepper be nearby?”

“Hey! Hey,” he shouts louder over Keith’s somewhat hushed laughter, “old lady hair is the craze nowadays. I bet _you’d_ look good with white hair.”

“Yeah, and in your opinion, I just have to wait another five years. Remind me to get a cane.”

"A cane. What else," is what Shiro whats to respond with. Faking thoughtful, playing around, entertaining the thoughts of two paladins turned elders.

What he actually says is, “This isn’t how I expected to grow old with you.”

Whatever mirth Keith has flickers out like a dead candle. Generously speaking, Shiro has maybe a second before his words come crashing down on him; he feels his blood ice over, feels that it's no longer circulating.

Dread tightens his gut not because he's ashamed of the words, but because Keith is. 

"I'm sorry," that's not right either because Keith's expression falls even further, something Shiro didn't even presume to be possible, "I didn't... Look, I know that you're not mine to have." 

"Shiro, what are you talking about," voice little better than a rough tremble. "Why do you make it sound like you're the one missing out?" 

"Because yours isn't," two fingers churn and twist the end of his left glove, over and out. "Yours isn't _here_." 

Face devoid of color asides from the starlight of the astral, Keith leans in. 

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "It's not fair to you."

Perhaps Black will kick them out; they've had their talk. Shiro has come clean. Or Keith will recoil in disgust, will ask him why he would fall for someone he was marked for. 

Instead, Keith just stares at the last of the constellation peaking out of the gap. Instead, Keith asks him something. 

With a hand on Shiro's shoulder, Keith looks him in the eye as he asks, "Do you remember when your mark... when you felt it for the first time?" 

 

*****

_SIMULATION CLEARED_ _._

 

Those two words shone on the hanging monitor, proud and clear with the rookie’s success. Beside him, Iverson shuffled, typically not one to congratulate on the initial test round. But there was an upturn of his lips.

While the line between pass and failure was a thin one even for the beginner simulations, Keith had just barely come over the razor’s edge. The board blinked his time, certainly not record breaking, but a surprising amount of spare time for his rocky start.

Someone yanked the chain and brought the door open, allowing for light to flood the pretend bridge. Emergency lights blinked before dying; Keith’s cue to unbuckle and leave.

Worse for wear and almost boneless, Keith came stumbling over the simulator’s deck. By some stroke of chance, Shiro caught his tumble wrist-first. “Easy there, space cadet. Don’t worry, everyone trips after their –”

He _looked_ , and Shiro’s breath caught at the sight.

Sweat clung to every corner of Keith’s face, he had mildew for sclera. He was a plethora of potential, only to be watered down by nerves and anxiety.

And regardless of mental health, the world would milk him for all he’s got and thensome.

“I’ve got you,” he said, mouthed the words over the curve of his ear and traced ministrations onto his skin. “Stand up straight, do you think you can do that for me?”

At last Keith’s eyes turned from the spun ground. Upon eye contact, Shiro realized that he wasn’t wracked by fear. _Life_ shone in his eyes, in such an intensity that Shiro wondered if it was not just his first in the simulator –

but the first time he ever felt alive at all.

“Alright,” Iverson’s tone snapped Shiro out of his stupor, “go sit down. Next up is Katt, Richard.”

Keith, sort of reluctantly, removed his hand from Shiro’s – he turned his head to look back, but apparently thought better of it at the last second.

The scene was seared into Shiro’s mind. Because besides it being the day he truly met Keith, it was also the day that his mark began to hum.

*****

“Look,” he says. When Shiro declines, his hold on Shiro’s shoulder tightens. “Look at me.”

Shiro fights to make sure his lips aren’t pursed, that his eyes aren’t watering. Keith takes his hand away, only to hold Shiro’s. At his quizzical expression, Keith nearly tears himself away; Shiro brings his palm down heavy.

Slowly, Keith guides his hand. From Keith’s movements, Shiro’s thumb traces over the skin-and-bone curve of his wrist. “Press down,” Keith tells him, hardly louder than a whisper. When he does, the mark on Shiro’s burns in response, an old pain brought alight. Pages of paper couldn’t count the times Shiro had looked at the empty flesh of Keith’s wrists and found himself aching.

Now, though. Now.

Beneath the bone, there’s a telltale thrum. To the untrained, it could be mistaken as the strong course of a heartbeat or just a stream of blood, but it’s entirely _other_. Brambles prick from underneath.

Just when Shiro’s heart skips a beat, Keith’s wrist flares. Yellow, almost the color of a healing bruise, covers the expanse of what Shiro’s touching. The pattern is small but recognizable to Shiro, as he’s seen it every day.

Keith, still not entirely patient after all these years, starts. “For the longest time, I thought I was… different. It was in high school, I think, when I was in culinary arts. Gloves don’t really, uh,” his eyes flutter away, but the red on his cheeks is entirely from embarrassment. “Don’t keep you from boiling water. It stung like hell, but then the teacher came and got me. It’s blurry in hindsight, but I think she screamed when she saw.”

"Keith..."

"Lotor, you remember him. I asked him why his markings never showed. Altean marks and human soulbonds, they've got something of magic in them but they're still recessive. It made sense. I didn't question it. It was the explanation I wanted ever since I was a kid, but it hurt so bad to know it was real."

Shushing him when Shiro, frankly makes a noise of complaint, Keith dips in his head between the space of Shiro's neck and shoulder.

"Because, and, I always thought," there is the betray of a dry hiccup in his tone, "that it wasn't ever you, because I knew you had a mark, I knew you did. But you never showed it, you always kept your wrists hidden, and who would hide something like that? Except I've been–"

"It's not your fault," Shiro knows that Keith couldn't stop him now if he tried, "I mean it, if you blame yourself for my mistake I'll..."

"You'll what," he murmurs, violet eyes boring into his. "Make up for lost time?" 

In tandem, they breathe. 

Careful, so very careful, he brings his shaking hands to Keith’s face, cupping it by the cheekbones. Heat lazily radiates off of him, but it’s not from the astral stars that burn inside of Keith’s skin; it’s a fire that is entirely Keith in nature.

Keith’s eyelashes don’t flutter and he doesn’t pucker his lips. Almost silently, he inhales before he closes the gap.

Fireworks don’t go off, the universe doesn’t right itself to the beating hammer of their hearts – it’s just them. Shiro and Keith, and that’s all they ever wanted.

Shiro angles his head to kiss him better, now that it's finally fucking happening his knees nearly buckling against the ground at the sensation. Work on the battlefield, healed cuts, has given Keith small, nearly unnoticeable ridges on his lips that Shiro is glad to run his tongue over. Briefly Keith whines to the line of Shiro’s cheek, right before he reciprocates at last. At last, at last, at last. 

Vaguely, as anything other than kissing Keith is very low on the priority tree currently, Shiro's wrist sounds. It's a pleasant vibration, albeit nothing compared to Keith, nothing could ever stand up to him. But that feeling: there it is, something clicking into place.

Finally.

 _Finally_. 

Warmth passes between them, from breathy, open-mouthed kissing to Keith’s high-pitched gasps when Shiro sucks at his jaw. It won’t form a hickey, due to Keith grabbing a tuft of his hair and tilting Shiro’s head for another kiss. His hand _twists_ , to keep Shiro steady. 

"Don't leave me," whispered when Keith nuzzles the crook of Shiro's shoulder, "don't leave me, not after that." _I'll lose more than you if you do_.

"I'm not leaving you ever again." Shiro brings his lips to Keith's forehead, faint kissing. "Never again." _All this time, I thought I had lost you_. 

Fingers have no place if not on the other's body. They map out the separated years by their knuckles, finding knicks in his tissue that weren't there previously.

Eventually, though neither can remember how or when it happened, they sink to the floor. Easier to touch, without distance between them. 

"I love you."

"I love you too, I do." 

Out of breath, Keith has to pant, "I used to call you my beloved mentor, you know."

"Do you have a  _diary_  or something," wet laughter bubbles out of Keith, but the tears are gone before they can spring. For Shiro brings his thumb there, caressing the skin. "But I'm guilty. I called you my beloved before." 

"Then don't stop," said as though it's the easiest thing in the world. "Whatever you do, don't stop." 

Prior, Keith had said something about having nothing but time and space on their hands. Shiro had argued that they only had this area, but now, he is willing to spend an eternity with Keith. 

This, Shiro thinks, can be his forever. 

 

And they do have that, that eternity, in and out of the astral. Loneliness no longer burns on Shiro's wrist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Comments, critique, and kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
